“I need to know about baby chickens. And mollymoochers.”
Blonde hair pulled tight into a ponytail, blue eyes bright with questions,
she is eighteen, a soldier already
and yet here she is on my porch with her friend,
both rocking gently as rain drips cadence.
I talk, explaining chick starter and water and a lamp for heat
and then my husband takes the girls into the woods
to search for the elusive morel in the darkness
of leaf mold and a cloudy afternoon.
When they return, I dip mushrooms in milk, roll them in flour
and drop them into a cast iron skillet. Oil sizzles and splatters,
a golden aroma drenches the room as we pull up our chairs and sit,
a small circle around a worn porcelain-topped kitchen table.
The mushrooms taste sweet as the moment, as this rare time
spent with a granddaughter who drove out our lonely road
to hunt for mushrooms and learn about chickens.
(photo of yellow morels is from Wikipedia)